Living in the Woods in a Tree: Remembering Blaze Foley

Chapter 36: Artist at Large

36 Artist at Large T he second letter I received from Blaze that autumn was addressed to “Mrs. Little Sybil Rosendawg Foley.” The return address read “c/o Old Black Dirt Road.” Inside were two pieces of paper, one a drawing of himself. Alongside it, he had written: This is a self portrait of me nude, (from the rear) in boots & hat, with sheep. (Nice sheep I met at Billy & Marge’s) Her name (if you’re interested): Vidalia Onion. (Not her real name but that’s what I call her) She’s O.K. But don’t worry. It’s not the onion I want. Love Blaze “Picasso” Foley Artist elite (at large) [or something of that nature] Across a smaller scrap of paper he had penned Sybil I love you always Depty. It was an echo of the inscription my mother had engraved on my father ’s bracelet more than thirty years before, the one we’d lost last summer. Everyday now I received a letter, sometimes two or three. He was going back and forth between names, sometimes signing Blaze, other times Depty Dawg. Changing coats like a chameleon, he was flip-flopping between identities , ending the day as Depty and waking up as Blaze. At times he was both at once, signing Dep/Blaze. In between letters, we were talking on the phone. We couldn’t afford a line at Castle Hill, so he’d call me at La Fonda at the end of the night. He was 145 146 | Living in the Woods in a Tree: Remembering Blaze Foley already thinking about going somewhere else, and wanted me to meet him there. An alternative country music scene was emerging in Chicago, and Dep thought it likely a big city would have more professional theater opportunities for me. Meantime, he had good news. Blaze Foley had begun to perform in clubs in and around Atlanta. Depty was encouraged, even as the experience was proving a mixed bag. In early October, he wrote: I have so much confidence now, more than I’ve ever had. So much thanks to you. Anyway, James at Good Ole Days isn’t the Cracker Jack I thought. He had me booked all right, opposite some turkeys. For $5.00 per night & tips and I have to pay for my own beer. But that may be only one of my many disappointments. I was able to swallow it & look on ahead. I’ve got other things working & Joe & me can do it to it. Zonko Joe was back in the county. He and Depty Dawg were hitting the music venues as a medical team. Dr. Blaze Foley BAMAPHD, an unpunctuated spoof on the erudite, wore a stethoscope around his neck, using it to tune his guitar. After a song, his associate, Dr. Whiplash Brubaker, would check the audience’s vital signs to measure its effect. In mid-October, I flew to Georgia for a brief reunion. It was good to see our friends again, to fall asleep in Depty Dawg’s arms. We never made it to Atlanta to catch Blaze Foley in action, but he did sing some new material for me. He was putting words to an instrumental that would become “Election Day,” lines of which he had already included in a letter to me: My luck’s been bad, the telephone just took my only dime. Three days flew by. Too soon, we were hugging at an airport. “And why am I going back to Texas?” I asked myself, and him. “We’ll go to Chicago together,” he answered. “Soon, I swear.” I threw my arms around him. “Please don’t remember me with tears in my eyes.” He held my face in his hands. “There are no good-byes. Just see you laters.” He was concerned our farewells were becoming too painful. It hurt to leave him with lingering doubts. As soon as I landed in Austin, I called him from the airport to reassure him that, together or apart, our love could survive distance and time. Artist at Large | 147 In answer I received from him the longest letter he would write. The following excerpts reveal the weight of his worry. I understood that desire to stitch the pieces of his life together, even as I underestimated the inadvertent hints about the depth of his despair: The first time I left I felt that what I wanted to do musically would mean losing you forever. I couldn’t have gone on thinking...